


These are Hard Times for Dreamers

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Female Relationships, Forced Marriage, Open Marriage, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of forcing Sansa to marry Tyrion, she is married off to Oberyn instead.  Cracky shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These are Hard Times for Dreamers

**Author's Note:**

> I...have no idea.
> 
> Title comes from "Bones" by MS MR.

They summon her to the Small Council room, Arys Oakheart and Balon Swann escorting her there. Sansa wonders if now is when she will be condemned to finally die. With Joffrey wedding Margaery in a fortnight, she isn’t needed any longer. Joffrey decreed only days ago that Winterfell is now the seat of Roose Bolton, the man everyone whispers is the one who put Robb to the sword. Now she is a traitor’s daughter and sister, an orphan with no claim, and if they do not order her beheaded, they may just throw her out into Flea Bottom to fend for herself. No one will take her in. The Starks have no friends anymore.

Lord Tywin sits at the table with Lord Varys, Lord Baelish, Queen Cersei, Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Tyrion, and a man Sansa glimpsed in the procession of Dornishmen who arrived a few days earlier. He is a Martell, though Sansa is not certain what is name is; all she knows is that, while he is a Prince of Dorne, he is not _the_ prince, and there are scandalous whispers about his paramour and bastard daughters. He is very handsome with brown skin and black hair, and he is the only one who smiles when she enters.

Sansa sinks into a proper curtsy and wonders where Joffrey is. Something is going to happen, and it makes her very nervous he is not present. _Mayhaps he has gone to fetch Ilyn Payne,_ she thinks, her stomach churning anxiously.

“Sit down, girl,” Lord Tywin orders, and the words shock Sansa more than anything. No one ever speaks directly to her anymore, let alone invites her to something like this. As she obeys, she notices Lord Baelish and Queen Cersei both look as if they’ve tasted something foul.

“You are going to wed,” Lord Tywin declares matter-of-factly, and it is then Sansa sees he isn’t pleased either. “Prince Oberyn has asked for your hand, and as your guardians, we’ve agreed. You’ll wed in the Great Sept in three days time and then you will return to Dorne with him.”

Sansa struggles not to let her panic show. She wants to go to Highgarden and wed Willas, to be with Margaery’s gentle brother. This smiling man may be handsome but Joffrey is handsome as well; why would any man, least of all a Prince of Dorne, ask for the hand of a claimless traitor?

Remembering her courtesies, she looks to Prince Oberyn and murmurs, “Thank you, Prince Oberyn, for making such a kind offer.”

His smile seems genuine, his eyes kind, as he assures her, “It is my honor, Lady Sansa.”

It is only later that evening when she dines with Margaery that Sansa learns there was no offer at all. Lord Tywin asked the Dornishman what it would take for the Dornish army to support Joffrey’s claim; Prince Oberyn said Gregor Clegane’s head and Sansa’s hand.

The Lannisters fought more strongly to keep the Mountain than they had her, and even then it was only so she did not go to the Tyrells.

“Prince Oberyn is Willas’s dearest friend,” Margaery informs her, clearly trying to be comforting. “I’m certain he will treat you kindly.”

Sansa isn’t certain she remembers what it feels like to be treated kindly.

* * *

Ellaria Sand is the most eye catching woman Sansa has ever seen in her life, and it confuses Sansa that much more as to why Oberyn Martell asked for her hand if Ellaria is his paramour.

The older woman invites Sansa to break her fast the morning after the Small Council meeting, and Sansa feels woefully out of her depth when she arrives at the room serving as Ellaria’s solar. She has been at court long enough to witness the power games the ladies play with each other, and Sansa knows she cannot compete with her future husband’s paramour. Even Margaery, usually so cunning, does not understand what is happening with this betrothal; she explained to Sansa that Ellaria Sand is the only woman Prince Oberyn has ever stayed with for any period of time and that they have four daughters together. Sansa wonders if Ellaria has called her here to scratch her eyes out, and she suddenly misses Arya desperately. Arya would never have allowed herself to be cowed like this, and it is that thought which makes Sansa straighten her spine and meet Ellaria’s dark eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind if I have a cup of wine,” Ellaria begins, pouring some Dornish sour. “I simply cannot stand that iced honey milk that’s so popular here.” She gestures to Sansa’s empty cup. “Would you like some?”

She never used to have a taste for wine but Sansa nods. The longer she remains in King’s Landing, the more Sansa comes to appreciate wine. “Yes, please.”

Ellaria smiles as she fills Sansa’s cup. “I imagine you could use a great deal of wine right now, what with your whirlwind betrothal.”

Sansa says nothing, sipping her wine.

“I’ve never been married, so I have no wisdom to give you, but I doubt you will find anyone in the world who knows Oberyn as well as I do. And I’m very sure you’re scared right now. But I’d like to be the first to tell you there are no reasons to be. Despite what the Lannisters whisper about us, we are good people.”

Making certain to carefully select her words, she offers, “I think I am more confused than anything, my lady.”

Ellaria laughs as she repeats the title. “I’m sorry, Sansa, I do not mean to laugh, but I don’t believe anyone has referred to me as a lady since I arrived. They have other titles for me, which I’m sure you’ve heard. Why don’t we start with what confuses you most?”

“Why marry me if he has you?”

Ellaria’s smile fades some as she nods in understanding. After a long moment during which Sansa begins to tense up again, Ellaria admits, “I wasn’t sure at first about this either. We have a daughter older than you; Oberyn’s eldest daughters are twice your age and more. You are a child, and I would certainly not want a man Oberyn’s age coming to wed my daughter.”

“I have flowered,” Sansa says, flushing brightly even as she shares the information. “I am not a child.”

“Despite what I’m sure they’ve told you here, there is more to womanhood than moonblood.” Ellaria waves her hand dismissively. “But we are here and decisions must be made. The entire castle whispers about the things that are done to you on Joffrey’s order, and I don’t think Oberyn can bear the idea of leaving another woman trapped in this damned place with Tywin Lannister and his men.”

“Because of what happened to Princess Elia?”

Ellaria’s amusement is gone now as she nods. “So while I may not approve of his marrying a girl younger than our daughter, I cannot fault him for wanting to spare you more pain.”

Sansa drains her wine cup and reaches to refill it. This conversation requires more wine. “I do not – That is, I would not expect – It will not bother me if you stay with him. I do not expect a true marriage. I…I simply appreciate being able to leave.”

“As I have no intentions of leaving, that bodes well for us.” Ellaria sighs before smirking. “It would seem to me we have two options. The first is that we be enemies; you will try to send me away, I will conspire to stay, and we will make life unbearable for all around us.”

“And the second?”

“The second is we be friends. I will help you adapt to life in Dorne, show you the way we do things and how to best win over Oberyn’s daughters. In exchange, you will not try to change my life, which I happen to like very much. And then we will both have very happy lives.”

“I would like a friend,” Sansa answers, the desire for friendship so sharp in her chest, it was a physical pain.

Ellaria lifts her wine cup in a toast. “To a long friendship then.”

She is drunk by the time she leaves Ellaria’s solar.

* * *

She is sitting with Margaery, her cousins, and Lady Leonette working on her embroidery when Prince Oberyn seeks her out. His appearance sparks a round of furtive glances exchanged by the Tyrells, and the cousins giggle at the way Oberyn shamelessly flirts with them. When he asks if Sansa would accompany him for a turn around the gardens, Sansa fears her heart will leap from her chest as she rises, taking his proferred arm.

“Ellaria tells me the two of you had a productive conversation this morning,” Oberyn tells her when they are a fair distance from the castle, walking among the flowers. Sansa notices there is no one close enough to overhear what they are saying, and she knows this is as planned as Lady Olenna and her loud fool.

“She is a very nice woman.”

“One of a kind,” he agrees, his face warm with affection. “She likes you a great deal. You should take that as a compliment. Ellaria does not take to people quickly.”

“I do.”

“I know this is happening very quickly, and I’m sorry for that. I have no desire to make you uncomfortable or harm you in any way. But I’m sure such a promise has been made to you before and been broken.”

“I am a traitor’s daughter and deserve no kindness,” she recites by rote.

“Yes, that’s what they’ve told you.” Oberyn lifts his hand, pointing to a window in Maegor’s Holdfast. “That was my niece’s nursery. The last time I set foot in King’s Landing, I said goodbye to her there. When I saw her again, she’d been stabbed fifty times. What was done to my sister…Princesses do not fare well in the Red Keep, and you are no exception.”

“I am no princess.”

“No, with your brother dead, there are some who would call you queen.”

Sansa jerks in surprise at the assertion. Robb was the King in the North. It has never occurred to her that as the last Stark, she is his heir.

“Would you like to go home, Sansa?”

“My home belongs to the Boltons now. There is nowhere for me to return.”

Oberyn reaches across his body, clasping Sansa’s hand against his bicep. “You will return to the North, Sansa. I promise you that. All I ask is that you allow me to earn your trust.”

She is not certain she will ever trust him. But he is not a Lannister, and that is enough of a reason for Sansa to believe him more than anything her captors said.

* * *

“Do you know what happens between a man and a woman in the marriage bed?” Ellaria asks her the morning of her wedding.

Sansa is certain this is Joffrey’s idea of an amusement, sending Oberyn’s paramour to assist in readying her for the wedding. He will never know Sansa prefers Ellaria to any of the women employed by the Lannisters.

“Some,” Sansa lies, nervously fidgeting with the thin jeweled belt at her waist. There was not time for a new gown to be made and they refused to even pay to have one of her current gowns altered; the one she wears today clings too tightly to her breasts and upper arms, the skirts a few inches above her ankles. She looks ridiculous even with the jewels Ellaria has lent her, and Sansa knows people will laugh at her today.

“Some,” Ellaria echoes as she carefully pins a lock of Sansa’s hair in place. Her hands are gentle and practiced, and it reminds Sansa of the way her mother would dress her hair. There is something undeniably maternal about Ellaria, and Sansa feels embarrassed for even thinking it. Come this evening she and Ellaria will share a man; Ellaria is certainly not her mother.

“My septa told me how a child is made.”

She sees Ellaria’s reflection in the looking glass, her face equal parts pitying and amused. “I’ve always found it odd that girls are taught about lying with men by women who die maids.” Working Sansa’s hair into a thick twisted braid, she asks, “Would you like to know what truly happens?”

“Yes, please.”

She wonders what Catelyn would have told her. As Ellaria explains what will happen during the bedding, Sansa thinks of her parents. They did not know each other before they wed, and she did not think either regretted it. Of course her situation was different from theirs, but mayhaps it will be fine. She will be away from Joffrey, and Oberyn seems kind enough. Sansa does not think she and Oberyn will ever love each other with any sort of passion, but she would not mind having a child to love.

“He will not force you,” Ellaria assures her, resting her hands on Sansa’s shoulders and squeezing them comfortingly. “I know you have no reason to trust us, but I can promise you he has never raised a hand to me or done anything to harm me in all the time I’ve known him.”

Sansa nods, taking a deep breath and bracing herself for the day ahead.

* * *

Tears flood Sansa’s eyes when Oberyn removes her Stark cloak, replacing it with the bright orange Martell cloak. She quickly looks to the ground, hoping he has not seen her reaction; when she hears him murmur, “I’m sorry,” she knows he did not miss it.

The High Septon declares they are married and for Oberyn to kiss her to seal it. Sansa sharply inhales through her nose, flushing a brilliant shade of scarlet at the idea of being kissed before all of these people. He moves forward, his rough hands cupping her face, and Sansa is surprised at the long, gentle press of his mouth against hers. It is nothing like the single kiss she shared with Joffrey so long ago, and it causes a strange flutter in her stomach.

When they turn toward the crowd, Sansa sees Ellaria standing near Oberyn’s steward, a pained smile on her face as she claps. 

Only way to help her escape King’s Landing or not, it is painfully unfair for a woman to watch the man she loves wed someone else.

* * *

“To bed! To bed!”

The cries make Sansa want to vomit, panic and terror clutching her fiercely. She has been stripped in front of court before and has no wish to experience it again. As the women carry Oberyn away, she is left to the men, including Joffrey. They tear at her terrible gown, even taking her smallclothes in their grasping hands. Rough hands paw her breasts, and one hand is thrust between her legs. She lashes out on instinct, nearly striking Joffrey, and then strong arms are lifting her into the air.

“I’ve got you,” Garlan Tyrell murmurs before shouting out something lusty and rude. He is stronger than most of the men, and it keeps her from their grasp. She wants to weep in gratitude for him, but she sees the door to the bedchamber and the fear returns.

Garlan deposits her near the bed, Oberyn in his smallclothes near the fire. Sansa attempts to cover her nudity with her hands, and Oberyn grabs one of the furs to give to her. As Garlan hurries towards the door, Sansa hears Joffrey, his voice slurred with drunkenness, shout, “Fuck her like the bitch she is!”

Oberyn strides to the door, slamming it shut and barring it. Fury is written all over his face, and it strangely calms Sansa. No one gets angry on her behalf anymore for what Joffrey does; since Lord Tywin came, not even Lord Tyrion can intervene on her behalf any longer. Oberyn’s anger towards Joffrey provides a sense of safety.

“Did they hurt you?”

Clutching the fur tightly to her, Sansa shakes her head. “No more than usual.”

Oberyn glances over his shoulder towards the raucous noise outside their door and sighs. He steps close to her, lowering his voice until it is nearly inaudible. “We are being watched. If our marriage goes unconsummated, they will not let you leave.”

Sansa nods in understanding. Ellaria explained earlier that Lord Varys had spies throughout the castle, and she knew there were stories of passageways behind the walls. It did not surprise her at all to know someone somewhere is watching them. She has always known this would happen someday, and at least it is not Joffrey.

His touches and kisses are gentler than she expected them to be, even with Ellaria’s assurances. She feels completely inept, uncertain where to place her hands when he kisses her, and she notices that, for all his confidence, there is reticence in his eyes. It brings to mind Ellaria’s comments about his daughters being older than she is and it makes her wonder if he thinks of them now. 

“I’m not a child,” she breathes, unsure why she is saying it but certain it needs to be said. It is the closest to consent she can offer, the proclamation that she is not a child being taken advantage of by an older man, that she wants to be free of King’s Landing and is a willing participant in her emancipation.

He pauses above her, studying her face. Oberyn inclines his head as he agrees, “No, you aren’t, are you?”

His touch between her legs steals her breath, the pleasure catching her by surprise. Despite Ellaria’s speech this morning, Sansa did not expect this. She blushes as a moan slips past her lips, canting her hips to meet his touch, and Oberyn whispers sweet words against her ear. 

It hurts when he enters her, Sansa’s nails biting into Oberyn’s shoulders as she chokes back a whimper. He freezes above her, pressing soft kisses to her face and neck, speaking to her the entire time, apologizing for hurting her. Determined to see this to its finish, Sansa pushes her hips up in a bid for Oberyn to begin to move and he understands.

Though the pain fades, there is no great pleasure like the one Ellaria spoke of, at least not for her. At most there is a pleasant warmth in her stomach, an ache that finds no satisfaction. Oberyn moans and his thrusts increase; Sansa clutches him tightly as he spills inside her, praise falling from his lips. When he withdraws from her, kissing her one last time before settling beside her, Sansa struggles not to wrinkle her nose in distaste at the stickiness between her thighs. 

Oberyn pulls her to him, and Sansa’s head instinctively finds its way against the firm plane of his chest. As he cards his fingers through her hair, the reassuring rhythm of his heart beneath her ear, Sansa finds herself being lulled into a dreamy sort of peace. 

This is not love and theirs will not be a traditional marriage, but Sansa goes to sleep safe with the knowledge they cannot make her a Lannister now that she is a Martell.

* * *

Though she is moved into Oberyn’s chamber, he does not sleep there. Sansa does not need anyone to tell her where her husband spends his time, though so many people whisper about it. The scandal of it all, they say when Sansa’s back is turned, Oberyn Martell marrying a girl young enough to be his daughter while still carrying on with his bastard mistress. There are even whispers Sansa joins them in bed, and though they make her blush, Sansa does nothing to refute them. _Let them think whatever they like now; we leave for Dorne soon._

The nausea begins the day before Joffrey and Margaery’s wedding, but Sansa thinks nothing of it. She has been sickened by Joffrey since the day Joffrey broke his word and took her father’s head, and she also worries for poor Margaery. It makes more sense that her sickness increases during the wedding when she sees the bastardized version of her father’s sword gifted to Joffrey by his grandfather. She is so outraged by it, Sansa pushes to her feet, but Oberyn pulls her back down, likely saving her life. Neither he nor Ellaria find it strange she keeps to her bed for nearly a week after that, missing Oberyn’s triumphant duel over the Mountain and the post-wedding celebrations sponsored by the Tyrells.

Her illness worsens as they are to depart for Dorne, but Sansa does not say a word. She is so afraid she will have to stay in King’s Landing, and the sickness seems to abate as the day goes on. On the day they are to depart, Sansa spends the early morning hours vomiting in the privy, her entire body aching as she is laced into her gown. Her stomach rolls constantly lately, her breasts ache sharply, and she is always exhausted. She hopes it is not the start of a terrible sickness; it would be her luck to escape the Lannisters only to fall ill.

It will take a fortnight to reach Sunspear, Oberyn explains, and they travel at a brisk pace, Sansa often desperately trying to keep her food down as the litter jostles through the mountains. The closer they get to Dorne, the warmer it becomes, and Sansa finds her gowns are ill suited for the weather. She is constantly sweaty, her thick hair sticking to her skin, and whenever Sansa catches her reflection, she flinches. Between the heat and her lingering illness, she is a pale, sweaty mess whose gowns no longer seem to fit.

Two days out from Sunspear Ellaria takes pity on her, insisting Sansa wear one of her lighter gowns. So uncomfortable, Sansa does not hesitate to accept, donning a thin gown of green silk. It did not fit properly at all, but Sansa did not care; unlike her other gowns, she did not feel cocooned in fabric and the looser bust of Ellaria’s gown took pressure off of her aching breasts.

“You look like a true princess of Dorne,” Oberyn quips when he sees her, brushing an affectionate kiss against her temple. It is certainty different from the long, passionate kiss he gives Ellaria in greeting, and Sansa is startled by the wave of jealousy and desire she feels. Sansa knows it is unfair; she is his wife in name only, and Sansa does not truly wish to have a full marriage with him. Ellaria is his love and Sansa respects that. Why she feels so emotional now, she does not know.

But by supper, even Ellaria’s gown has done little to allay her discomfort. Sansa feels lightheaded as she joins their party for the evening meal, and her skin is still slick with sweat. She does not remember whose castle they are staying at tonight, and Sansa knows she is ill because that does not bother her. It is poor manners, and Sansa hates being discourteous. It does not seem as if their hosts mind; they are loud and effusive with Oberyn and Ellaria, and Sansa envies the easy way all of them interact. Oberyn’s hand rests on the small of Ellaria’s back, Ellaria’s fingers playing with his hair, and Sansa feels incredibly unnecessary.

The second the scent of the blackened fish reaches her nose, Sansa knows she is going to be sick. She pushes away from the table, startling those nearest her as she flees the great hall, the meager contents of her stomach rising in her throat even as she moves. Shame and humiliation war for top billing as she stumbles outside, vomiting in the entryway. Servants pause their work to watch Prince Oberyn’s new bride, and Sansa starts to cry even as she continues to be ill.

Sansa feels a gentle hand on her back, another gathering her hair away from her face. She manages to look out of the corner of her eye and sees Ellaria and Oberyn, both looking deeply concerned. As the nausea finally subsides, Sansa straightens up but immediately sways on her feet; Oberyn moves forward, firmly holding her by the elbows. Sansa can no longer manage any strength and slumps against him, allowing him to bear the majority of her weight.

“Sansa, sweetling, what’s wrong?” Ellaria asks, touching her clammy forehead and cheeks with the back of her hand. The gesture reminds Sansa so sharply of her own mother, it only makes her tears fall faster. “How long have you been feeling ill?”

“I’m sorry,” she cries, her head still spinning. “I did not want to stay in King’s Landing. I thought it would pass, but it seems to be getting worse.”

“What is getting worse?” Oberyn queries.

“I cannot stop getting sick and the smell of food makes it worse and my body aches and I cannot stay awake. I feel well and truly terrible. I fear I may have some type of plague.”

A queer smile is on Oberyn’s face as Ellaria chuckles in relief, brushing a thumb across Sansa’s brow. “Oh, sweetling, you do not have the plague. You have a babe inside you.”

“No,” she objects instantly, shaking her head. “That cannot be. I – “ Flushing brightly, she mumbles, “We only shared a bed once.”

“With this one, sometimes once is all you need,” Ellaria drawls, casting a look of playful chastisement towards Oberyn. “You needn’t look so smug, you know.”

As Sansa’s head spins with this new knowledge, Oberyn carefully lifts her in his arms. Sansa rests against him, trying to control her stomach and her panic. She does not know how to be a mother. How can she possibly tend to a babe?

When she wakes in the morn, her stomach already churning viciously, she is surprised to find Oberyn at her bedside. He presses a root into her hand and instructs her to chew it and tuck it into her cheek. Almost immediately the nausea begins to subside, and Sansa is so grateful, she does not even have the words to express it.

“I am sorry you’ve been so ill. Is this – Is this something you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“The babe,” is all he says.

Sansa shifts higher in bed to sit against the headboard. “I am scared but I have always wished to have a family of my own.”

Laying his hand atop hers, Oberyn smiles. “I am happy to hear that. I must confess that I do so love being a father, and the gods seem to know it as well as often as they bless me. You and our child will be well cared for here, I swear it.”

It is a sweet promise, and Sansa does not doubt Oberyn loves his children. No matter what stories people tell, his love of his daughters is the only detail that never changes. Sansa knows he will love this babe as well.

She only hopes Ellaria is not upset with her.

* * *

Sunspear looks nothing like Winterfell or the Red Keep, and Sansa is grateful for that. Though the heat is unbearable for Sansa’s cool blood, she cannot deny its beauty. Oberyn and Ellaria both insist the Water Gardens are even more beautiful, and Ellaria explains it is where she and her daughters spend most of their time. Sunspear, Ellaria explains, is where Prince Doran, his children, and Oberyn’s oldest girls spend their time.

“Where will I stay?”

For the first time Sansa suspects her marriage is not wholly welcomed in Dorne because Ellaria simply says, “We’ll see.”

They are not unkind to her, Oberyn’s oldest daughters. She recites their names in her head - _Obara, Nymeria, Tyene_ \- and does not ask after Sarella when the mention of her name gains her three scathing glances from her stepdaughters. Prince Doran and his daughter Arianne are slightly more polite to her, but Sansa knows with absolute certainty that Oberyn had not sought his brother’s approval to wed her.

“Please don’t tell them of the babe yet,” Sansa requests, the first and only thing she has asked since the day they wed. Oberyn studies her a moment before nodding in agreement.

He sends her to the Water Gardens with Ellaria the next morning.

* * *

Her younger stepdaughters do not care for her any more than her older ones do, but Ellaria insists they treat her with respect. Often they do not interact with her at all; her mother’s stomach is as bad as it ever was, and Sansa spends much of her days in her rooms. Sometimes she stands on the balcony and watches the children splashing in the pools, wondering if her own child will ever join them. It seems so strange to her that the tiny thing growing inside her will be the brother or sister of these girls; she desperately hopes her child will know the love and safety of her siblings the way Sansa did.

“They hate me,” Sansa declares one afternoon when Ellaria joins her for a cup of wine.

“They don’t,” Ellaria assures her. “Believe me when I say that if they truly hated you, they wouldn’t ignore you. This is complicated for them, for all of us. There is a very difficult history between your family and the Martells. No matter how much wisdom they may see in what Oberyn did, old pains are hard to forget.”

“I wasn’t even alive then.”

“We all pay for our father’s sins.” Ellaria pats her hand comfortingly. “For what it’s worth, they hated me in the beginning as well. They’ll come around.”

Nearly five moons pregnant and feeling farther away from home than ever, Sansa finds no comfort in the words.

* * *

She comes across the boy during one of her afternoon walks, a bit of activity ordered by the maester in hopes it would encourage the babe to change position inside of her. He is plainly dressed and plucking a blood orange from a tree, and when he looks at her, Sansa sees he lacks the beauty of the other Martells. Stocky and plain looking, there is nothing about him that would usually appeal to her, but the boy flushes ferociously when she smiles at him, stuttering out an offer of a blood orange.

“Thank you,” she says, trying to eat the fruit as delicately as possible despite her ravenous appetite. Now that her mother’s stomach has abated, Sansa cannot stop eating. She feels like an auroch in both appetite and size, but the boy does not seem to notice.

“You must be the Stark girl.”

“Sansa.”

“Uncle Oberyn speaks of you.”

“Uncle? Are you Quentyn or Trystane?”

“Quentyn.” He seems to grow more uncomfortable as he awkwardly offers his arm to her. “May I escort you, my lady aunt?”

She tells herself she takes his arm because it is the proper thing to do, but it is more than that. Though she is not a prisoner any longer, her loneliness is still a living, breathing thing. Ellaria and Oberyn visit her often, but she longs for conversation, for companionship. If Oberyn’s awkward nephew is the closest she can come to having it even briefly, Sansa will take it.

“You may call me Sansa. It seems silly to call me aunt when I am younger than you.”

“As you wish.”

“I was unaware you had returned to Sunspear,” Sansa says after several moments of silence, desperate to keep the conversation moving.

“It is only a brief visit. I will be returning to my foster father’s home soon.”

“Do you like it there?”

“Yes.”

Sansa softly sighs. It seems that Quentyn not only lacks the Martell beauty but the Martell friendliness as well. Disappointed, she looks to the ground and keeps walking. 

It surprises her when Quentyn asks, “Are you enjoying Dorne?”

She looks up in surprise and sees the expression on his face. The look of concentration and effort are familiar; she remembers seeing them on her father’s face whenever he’d have to speak to someone unfamiliar. _He is shy_ , Sansa realizes, and it softens her heart to him.

“It is unlike any place I’ve ever been,” she answers truthfully. “I had never seen sand before I came here.”

“I have never seen snow,” Quentyn offers before a light flush fills his cheeks, almost as if he is embarrassed for having shared something. It reminds Sansa of the conversations she had in King’s Landing when she’d spend every moment trying to figure out if what she was saying was all right.

“Mayhaps someday you will.”

Quentyn inclines his head some. “Mayhaps.”

It is hardly a notable conversation, but it nourishes Sansa. She takes care to dress the next day, even using some of the stain Ellaria gifted her on her lips; it is easy to see the surprise on Ellaria’s daughters’ faces when she joins them near the pools to break her fast.

“Good morning, Sansa,” Ellaria greets as she peels a blood orange. “You look well today.”

“Thank you.” Reaching for a slice of bread and slathering it thickly with jam, she smiles at little Loreza. “I like your gown, Loreza. It’s very pretty.”

For the first time Loreza smiles at her, revealing a gap in her front teeth. Sansa thinks of little Beth Cassel and the way she’d lean against Sansa’s knee during embroidery sessions with Septa Mordane. “Arianne gave it to me for my name day. I’m six now.”

 _Rickon will never be six,_ Sansa thinks abruptly before shaking away the thought. 

If she is going to start fresh, she must stop living in the past. The Martells are her family now, the only family she has, and she is determined to stop hiding in her room and become one of them.

* * *

The larger her stomach grows, the more nervous Sansa becomes. She cannot bear to confess her fears to Ellaria, and the burgeoning friendships she’s trying to build with Ellaria’s girls are of no use; they are young like she is and do not know the terror and confusion that comes with motherhood.

Some days Sansa wants to scream, to have the sort of hysterics she has never had before. She never feels like someone’s wife; she is not expected to run the castle or accompany Oberyn to functions. In fact, she seldom sees her husband at all except when he comes to visit Ellaria and the girls. He does not ignore her; he brings her books to read and always speaks with her, wanting to know if there is anything she needs to feel comfortable. Oberyn is always kind to her, but it is not how Sansa imagined a husband would treat his pregnant wife. And because he did not treat her like a wife, Sansa often forgot she was one. In regards to her every day life, being a maiden and being a wife were very similar.

But her impending motherhood never leaves her thoughts. The child moves constantly inside her, pushing painfully against her ribs, bladder, and pelvis. Her feet and ankles swell so badly, the maester insists she spend most of the day with her feet up, and her appetite fluctuates between non-existent and ravenous. Worst of all, Sansa feels completely incapable of self-control, often devolving into tears over the slightest thing. She often finds herself upset over things that would otherwise not bother her at all, and the closer she gets to her child being born, the more alone Sansa feels.

She tries to remember her own mother, pregnant with Robb while her father fought in Robert’s Rebellion, and how strong she had to be. Sansa tries desperately to imbue herself with that sort of strength, reminding herself that if she could survive King’s Landing and Joffrey, she can certainly handle having a child while surrounded by friends. The war has not come to Dorne, and it is easy to pretend most days that nothing bad is happening. She tries often to imagine she has a normal marriage and the Martells are her good family, that the circumstances are completely unremarkable. On the days that fails she reminds herself that she used to think no one would wed her for love but for her claim, and as she does not even have that anymore, she is lucky Oberyn wed her.

Nothing makes the loneliness go away.

And then one day Ellaria comes to her room bearing a letter for her. Sansa thinks it might be from Margaery, but the seal is not a golden rose; it is black and she does not recognize the handwriting. She breaks the wax and her confusion is quickly overtaken by happiness.

“Jon,” she sighs, hungrily devouring his words. They are not much; Jon inquires into her wellbeing, congratulates her on her marriage and child, and offers condolences for her mother’s death. There is no mention of their shared loss of siblings, and he does not tell her how life is at the Wall. But the few sentences, the reminder that she is _not_ the only Stark left, not really, are enough to warm Sansa’s heart.

“An old love?” Ellaria asks.

“My half-brother.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten Ned Stark had a bastard. Were you close?”

“No,” Sansa answers honestly, carefully folding the parchment, “he was much closer to my sister. But mayhaps that can change now.” The child rolls inside her and Sansa slides a comforting hand over her stretched skin. “We are the only wolves left.”

Ellaria eyes her speculatively, almost as if she is seeing Sansa for the first time. Though she does not mention the letter again, Sansa senses something is different, a subtle shift in the air. Her suspicion is confirmed when later that evening Oberyn’s daughter Nymeria appears at her door.

Lady Nym is the most beautiful of Oberyn’s daughters and also the one Sansa sees the most of. Obara and Tyene stay in Sunspear, but Lady Nym seems close to the younger girls. Today she wears the most scandalous gown of diaphanous material and Sansa can make out every curve of her body.

A servant is behind Nym carrying a strange table, which he sets up beside the bed. Sansa watches in confusion as Nym begins to assemble game pieces on it, pulling a chair near the bed when she’s finished.

“This is cyvasse,” Nym tells her, “and I am going you to teach you how to play.”

“Why?”

“Because Ellaria thinks you will be very good at it, and you might just need it for what’s to come.”

Sansa doesn’t know how a silly board game will help her, but she is so grateful for the company, she does not turn Nym away.

* * *

It feels like she is being ripped apart.

Sansa screams with every contraction, the pain tearing through her body until she cannot breathe. The maester frets she may be too small to deliver such a large babe, and Sansa wonders if after everything, she is going to die in the birthing bed. She grabs Ellaria’s hand, makes her promise she will not let her child die, and Nym urges her back against the bed, assuring her no one will die. Tyene, who is assisting the maester, tells Sansa to open her mouth and pours something on her tongue. It tastes sweet and helps make the pain less intense, but it also makes Sansa feel as if she is hearing everyone speak from very far away. 

She wants her mother. It is all Sansa can think and it surprises her when Ellaria pushes her sweat soaked hair from her forehead and tells her she knows. Realizing she has been speaking aloud, Sansa whimpers, “I want my family.”

“We’re right here, Sansa,” Nym says, stroking her hand, and Sansa literally bites her tongue to stop from correcting her.

When the maester orders her to push, Sansa leans forward, bracing herself against Ellaria and Nym, and complies. Even with Tyene’s concoction, the agony is excruciating, and she fears she is going to die without ever delivering her child. The sensation of movement between her legs is bizarre but also signals that at least something is happening. When she finally feels the maester pull her child free, Sansa collapses back against the pillows, weak and dizzy.

Just before she passes out, Sansa hears Tyene announce, “She’s losing too much blood.”

* * *

Sansa wakes up and that surprises her most of all.

Her body is terribly sore and some time between when she slipped into unconsciousness and now, her bedding was changed. She lies in a new bed on fresh linens, and as her eyes finally focus, she sees the maester, Tyene, Nym, and Ellaria.  
“Try not to move,” the maester says, his stern face relaxing some. “You lost a great deal of blood and it will take time for your strength to return.”

“Where’s my baby?” she rasps, struggling to raise herself to rest against the headboard. Ellaria and Nym hurry to her side, helping her up, and it is then Sansa hears someone else moving out of her line of vision. It is then she sees Oberyn, a swaddled bundle in his arms.

“She’s right here,” he says, a smile of such pure affection on his face, it makes Sansa forget the pain she is in. He perches on the edge of the bed, bringing the baby towards her, and Sansa curses her body for its weakness as she can barely move her arms.

Her daughter is a much larger baby than she remembers Rickon being, but there is something endearing about her chubby cheeks. Sansa sees nothing of herself in the girl; she has Oberyn’s golden skin, a full head of silky black hair, and when her eyelids flutter, Sansa sees she has Oberyn’s eyes as well. Someday she will be another Dornish beauty like her sisters, and Sansa does not know what brings more tears to her eyes: that her daughter is healthy and safe or that she has been born into a large, devoted family.

“Did you have a name in mind?”

“Catya,” she breathes, brushing a forefinger against her daughter’s smooth cheek. “Her name is Catya.”

The maester tells her it is unlikely she will ever bear another child, her body too damaged from Catya’s birth, but Sansa does not care. For the first time since her father’s execution, Sansa truly feels as if she has family again.

* * *

Sansa is certain there has never been a child as adored as little Catya Martell. 

She is endlessly fascinated by her daughter, spending every waking moment doting on her. There are days when she can barely bring herself to put Catya in her cradle, loving the weight of her in her arms. But then, the moments when Sansa is not holding her daughter, someone else is. Oberyn stays at the Water Gardens, showering so many presents upon Catya that Ellaria laughs she is the best-outfitted infant in Westeros. Even Obara, the most standoffish of Oberyn’s daughters, comes to see Catya, bringing with her a miniaturized spear that she insists she’ll teach Catya to wield. It is an odd gift in Sansa’s opinion, but Tyene assures her it is the closest to sentimental as Obara gets.

The days stop seeming so endlessly long, her unhappiness abating. With Catya drawing her focus, there is no time to focus on the tragedies of the past few years. Though there are moments when she wishes her parents were alive to hold her daughter, to love her as much as she does, Sansa begins to put aside her grief and focus on her future, hers and Catya’s.

Catya loves the pools in the Water Gardens. Shortly after her first nameday, Sansa is seated on the edge of one, her legs dangling in the water, Catya happily splashing away when she sees Quentyn across the way. He is as seemingly uncomfortable as he was upon their last meeting, but Sansa lifts her hand to wave. To her surprise, Quentyn does not walk away but approaches.

He does not move with any sort of grace, clumsily sitting beside her. She still finds it odd someone as awkwardly moving as Quentyn is actually a knight, and she knows his decision to receive his knighthood from Lord Yronwood rather than Oberyn has caused some friction between him and Arianne. Trystane, who has become one of Sansa’s most frequent cyvasse partners and closest friends, finds the squabbling between his siblings ridiculous, but she also knows Trystane is closer to Arianne than Quentyn. For Quentyn, who is the most like Doran, it must be as lonely for him as it could be for Sansa.

“This must be my new cousin.”

“Yes, this is Catya.” At the sound of her name, Catya shouts, kicking up water happily. “Are you just visiting or are you staying for awhile?”

“I will be at Sunspear for several moons before venturing east. I am going to travel the Free Cities.”

“To visit your mother?”

“I plan on visiting many places.” Quentyn shifts uncomfortably before offering, “I could bring you something back if you’d like.”

“A present? It has been a long time since I’ve received one.”

“I thought my uncle showered you in them,” Quentyn says, his voice sounding strangely bitter.

Sansa laughs, setting Catya on her feet in the bottom of the pool and giving the girl two fingers to hold to keep her upright. “I think you’re confused about the nature of my relationship with Oberyn. I am very grateful for what he has done for me and I am happy that Catya can call him her father, but we are not the gift giving sort.”

“I did not realize it was an unhappy marriage.”

“No, you misunderstand. It is a marriage in name only. He wed me to take me from King’s Landing. That is all, no more and no less.”

“So he would not be offended if I were to bring you a gift?”

It is then and only then Sansa realizes Quentyn is trying to flirt with her. She feels a blush starting to rise on her cheeks, the flattery of it catching her off-guard. It is silly, she thinks, for a mother to be so flustered by the clumsy affections of a boy.

But no matter how old she feels, Sansa is barely four-and-ten and has never had a romance of her own choosing. 

“I would like it very much.”

* * *

He is not handsome or charming; there is nothing about him that makes her blood run hot or fills her with girlish anticipation. That is not the sort of man Quentyn is and Sansa doubts it is the type of woman she is any longer. They are practical people, and though their relationship is not one full of passion, it certainly brightens Sansa’s days.

Quentyn is a good man, the sort she suspects her father wanted her to marry. In so many ways, he reminds Sansa of Ned Stark with his sober face and calm temperament. He treats her with respect and touches her with fumbling care, and if he notices that she trembles with nervousness the night he comes to her bed the first time, he does not mention it. Of course, she does not mention that she noticed his own trembling, and it endears her to him, the fact that she is the first woman he has ever bedded.

Their affair is no secret if only because it is impossible to keep a secret here. On the same day Quentyn kisses her for the first time – a quick brush of lips against a blood orange tree – Lady Nym sits beside her during supper and drawls, “I thought no woman would ever be able to tempt my cousin.”

It seems to amuse the Martells, her relationship with Quentyn. She even catches Doran smiling when Quentyn asks her to dance at Doran’s name day celebration, his eldest son trying desperately not to step on her toes. If anyone disapproves, word of it never reaches Sansa’s ears, but still they try to be discreet. Only when they are alone do they ever behave as lovers, and though Sansa is not certain what exists between them will ever be love, she certainly cares for Quentyn very much.

Catya is the only one who seems less than happy with Sansa’s affair if only because it means her every whim is no longer catered to night and day. Ellaria has always teased her that she is too soft with Catya, but Sansa did not believe it until her daughter began to pout every time Quentyn appeared. Sansa constantly marvels at how quickly Catya grows, at the way she now chases after Loreza and Dorea on unsteady legs. There is no hesitation in her girl; she is brash and bold and utterly fearless, and there are days Sansa envies her that.

It surprises her, how much she enjoys sharing a bed with Quentyn. When Septa Mordane told her of the “duty” she’d be required to perform for her husband some day, pleasure was never spoken of; Ellaria referenced it during the speech she gave her on her wedding day, but it seemed almost an imaginary prospect. Only after several encounters with Quentyn does she begin to feel what Ellaria described, and when she peaks for the first time, Sansa suddenly understands why people enjoy this so much. 

“I leave at week’s end for the Free Cities,” Quentyn reminds her one evening as he finishes dressing, pulling on his boots.

Sansa, who still lies in bed among the tangled sheets, nods. “Yes, I know.”

“I am not sure when I’ll return.”

Sadness begins to bloom in Sansa’s chest. “I understand.”

Quentyn exhales softly before twisting to face her. His usually stoic face seems heavy with regret as he swears, “Please understand this has nothing to do with you. I…I feel quite deeply for you, Sansa.”

Confused but hoping to assure him, she leans forward, laying a gentle hand against his cheek and drawing him in for a kiss. “Do not worry about me. I will be fine, and I only wish for you to have a lovely time in the Free Cities.”

Quentyn does not seem soothed by her words, and it will be years before she understands just what Quentyn was trying to apologize for doing.

* * *

It is easy to forget about the war in Dorne. Due to Doran’s clever maneuvering, they are untouched by raiding and fighting, and weeks at a time will pass before Sansa remembers the horrors going on in the other parts of the country. Though she is grateful for Catya’s sake, Sansa also wonders what is happening, who is winning the war, and most importantly what is unfolding in the North.

Reality roughly interjects itself into her life again on a sunny afternoon. She is reading a book in her solar while Catya naps when Oberyn appears in her doorway, his face deadly serious. Sansa’s heart drops into her stomach as he sits opposite her, and she waits for whatever devastating news he is about to deliver.

“There is word from the North, from Winterfell.” 

“What sort of word?”

“Ramsay Snow is marrying a girl they say is your sister.”

“Arya?” For a brief moment, Sansa finds herself buoyant with hope at the idea Arya may live. She’s imagined so many times what it would be like to reunite with her sister, to hold Arya in her arms and beg forgiveness for the way she treated her. 

And then she realizes it is only a silly fantasy, that Arya has been dead since their father lost his head, and no amount of futile wishes will change that.

“The Northern lords gather at Winterfell for the wedding. My men say it is the only way they can get the North to follow Roose Bolton.”

“It is not my sister.”

“That is what my men say as well. But there is a man who vouches for her identity.”

“Who?”

“Theon Greyjoy.”

The name makes her blood boil. “He is a liar and an oathbreaker. You cannot trust a thing he says.”

“I do not, but…If there is even the slightest chance – “

“If Ramsay Snow weds my sister, we will know soon enough.”

“How?”

“Because she’ll kill him.” 

Sansa does not believe the poor girl being given to the bastard of Bolton is her sister, but if it _is_ , she knows Arya’s wedding will be as red as Edmure’s.

* * *

She takes lovers sparingly after Quentyn, Septa Mordane’s lessons stubbornly clinging. Her prudishness endlessly amuses Tyene and Nym, who take and cast off lovers as easily as changing gowns. Tyene teaches her to brew moon tea despite Sansa’s insistence it is unneeded given the maester’s certainty about future childbearing, and Nym gifts her scandalous gowns, showing Sansa how to paint her eyes with kohl and stain her lips a deep red. Unlike her stepdaughters though, it is up to Sansa to pursue lovers; men fear finding themselves on the wrong end of Oberyn’s spear.

Daemon Sand is the first after Quentyn, but she spends only a single night with him, chalking it up to too much wine. There is a Yronwood squire for a handful of days and a handsome man in service to House Dayne who leaves purple fingerprints on her hips; once there is a husband and wife who arrive with the party from Spottswood, a thoroughly scandalous night that thrills and scares Sansa in equal measure. She tells herself she did not select the two because they remind her of Oberyn and Ellaria, but she minds her passions more tightly after that.

Catya’s second name day comes and goes, and Sansa’s third year as a married woman begins. Given how little she has seen Oberyn or Doran lately, she suspects they are plotting something. If there is anything she has learned since coming to Dorne, it is that the Martells are far more involved in the war than they let on. They all keep it from her, the true plans they make, the arrangements that are made. She has had enough war to last her a lifetime, but Sansa finds herself resenting how little they truly trust her.

 _My daughter may be a Martell_ , she writes Jon one morning, _but I will always be a Stark to them._

Trystane returns from an extended time in Starfall, and Sansa is glad to see him. He brings Catya a new doll, which she clutches in one hand while the other is wrapped tightly around the spear Obara gave her long ago, and brings Sansa several skins of Arbor gold he insists they share.

“Tell me what happens elsewhere,” Sansa requests when they are well and truly drunk, Trystane splayed across the floor with a pillow propped beneath his head.

“They are boring tales.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Trystane smiles up at her, obviously seeing through her inept attempts at information gathering. “You will get me in trouble.”

“No more trouble than you got into for bedding that girl from the Stormlands.”

He laughs loud and free, straining to reach another skin of the Arbor gold. “That _was_ a great deal of trouble. I thought I was going to be sent to Lys like Oberyn for that one.”

“So then telling me cannot possibly lead to more trouble than that.”

Trystane rolls onto his side, beckoning her to come closer as he loudly whispers, “Stannis is marching on Winterfell to fight the Bolton bastard, and there are rumors Joffrey is becoming madder than Aerys, that the smallfolk wonder if the little fat one might not be a better king.”

“They’re turning against the Lannisters?”

Trystane nods with a languid smile. It catches her by surprise when he strokes her cheek with affection. “Will you still play cyvasse with me when you are Queen in the North?”

“If you will have me.”

His eyes burn hot as he moves forward, his breath against her lips. “I would have you.”

He takes her on the floor, the rug leaving burns on her back, her nails digging furrows in his shoulders. When he suddenly rolls them, Sansa now straddling him, her hands braced on his broad chest, she finds herself panicking at the expression on his face. It is not the awe from Quentyn’s, the lust from Daemon’s, the regret from Oberyn’s; no, there is genuine love and affection in Trystane’s eyes, and this is not what Sansa wants at all.

“Sansa!” he gasps when he peaks, holding her tightly to him, and she bites her lip to keep from apologizing, for making him think something that isn’t true at all.

She can scarcely look at him the next morning, each smile and kind look feeling like a knife in her heart. Sansa knows she should turn him away, explain to him that she has never felt anything more than passing attraction to him, that she considers him to be one of her greatest friends but nothing more. But every time he comes to her, he tells her a little more, keeps her a bit more informed, and Sansa has become so concerned she’s traded a prison for another sort of helplessness, she is desperate for knowledge.

Every time Trystane touches her, she thinks of Cersei Lannister and her long ago advice that the most powerful weapon Sansa possessed was between her legs and wonders what she has become.

* * *

Obara, Nym, and Tyene disappear one day. Sansa has no idea where they have gone and there is no one she can ask. Wherever they have gone, it has caused the Martells to close ranks even tighter, and Ellaria vibrates with anxiety, which worries Sansa the most. If Ellaria is concerned, it means danger could come to Dorne, and Sansa will not allow Catya to become a victim of the Lannisters.

She writes of her fears to Jon but receives no reply. It has been nearly six moons since his last letter, and she frets something has happened to him. She considers pushing Trystane for information, but Trystane’s loyalty is to his house and Sansa does not begrudge him that; she has no desire to turn anyone against his family. Everyone else she knows, they are dead or far away in the North, and there is no one who could help her, no one who might be able to spirit her and Catya to safety.

He comes on a bright afternoon, and Sansa does not think much of him. Both Ellaria and Oberyn get to their feet, grins on their faces, and Sansa notices the cane in the man’s hand, the unsteadiness of his gait. It is only then she sees the golden rose on his doublet and realizes who is standing before her.

“Sansa, allow me to introduce my dearest friend and heir to Highgarden, Lord Willas Tyrell.”

 _Willas_. This is the man she was going to marry, the hero in her fantasies. He is as beautiful as his siblings with golden brown hair and bright green eyes; his arms are well built and he is taller than Oberyn. She thinks of Margaery’s assurances as to how well Willas would treat her if they married, and though she understands now it was likely the Tyrells maneuvering for her claim, on the nights she lies alone in bed, she wonders how it would have been with Willas.

Willas’s smile is open and inviting as he takes her hands and brushes a kiss across her knuckles. “It is an honor to finally meet you, Lady Sansa.”

“And you as well, Lord Willas.”

She takes particular care with her appearance for dinner, wearing one of the gowns Nym gifted her that she could never bring herself to wear before; this one is shades of green, a braided belt of gold around her waist. Catya watches with rapt eyes as Sansa carefully applies kohl to her eyes, rubbing perfume against her pulse points. As she spreads stain across her lips, she catches Caya pursing her lips and cannot resist rubbing a bit across her daughter’s mouth.

“Me pretty,” Catya declares, staring at her reflection in the looking glass.

“Yes, you are,” Sansa agrees, her throat unexpectedly tightening. When did her daughter stop being a baby and start being a little girl?

They sup in Ellaria’s solar, the quartet of them, seated on the floor on large pillows rather than at a table. Sansa doesn’t recognize the dishes, but Ellaria swears they are Willas’s favorites, specialties in the Summer Islands. Oberyn tells stories about his time there, the people he met, the places he loved to go; Sansa thinks of Jalabhar Xho and the way he described his home, how much he wanted to return. She never thought to have anything in common with an exiled Summer Island prince, but Sansa supposes they aren’t so different now.

“When this damned war is over, we’re going,” Oberyn declares, filling all of their cups once again with the sweet amber wine imported from the islands. “We’ll ride out the winter there and worship like the islanders.”

Ellaria laughs. “As if you need an excuse to drink too much wine and fuck.”

Sansa’s eyes flick towards Willas to see his reaction, but Willas only grins, obviously used to exchanges like this between his old friends. 

“It’s a spiritual experience!”

“For as often as you commune, it is amazing your cock has not fallen from your body.” She leans towards Sansa, conspiratorially murmuring, “Can you believe him? Why, we should trade him in for another man.”

Sansa cannot help but smile. “But don’t you enjoy the communing as well?”

Ellaria gasps in mock outrage, rolling towards Willas. “Obviously you are my only friend in this room. I have half of a mind to return to Highgarden with you.”

“I fear you’d find us very boring in the Reach.”

“That is true.” Ellaria drains her cup again and it is only as she gestures for Oberyn to fill it again that Sansa realizes how drunk she is. “Dear Willas was quite heartbroken when Oberyn wed you, you know.”

“Ellaria,” Oberyn says warningly, shaking his head as a blush heats Willas’s cheeks.

“Oh, it’s fine. We’re all friends here.” Turning back to Sansa, she continues, “When it became clear that fuck Tywin would never allow you to leave King’s Landing with your claim, there was talk he planned on giving you to the Imp. It was Willas who told Oberyn of your plight.”

“I – I simply wished to help,” Willas sputters, staring down into his wine cup. “Margaery likes you a great deal. I know she hoped you would become sisters.”

“But you were heartbroken over your own suggestion?”

Willas’s face is nearly crimson. “Just because it was my suggestion does not mean I liked it.”

Sansa sips her wine and tries to hide her smile. She thinks she will like having Willas here very much.

* * *

Much like with her other lovers, Sansa goes to Willas. If he is surprised to see her at his door in the middle of the night a week into his visit, he does not show it. Instead he kisses her as if the world is ending and whispers, “Finally.”

This is different than the others. She does not care who sees her and Willas exchange kisses, doesn’t make sure to be back in her chamber before the rest of the Water Gardens wake. For a fortnight she wakes in Willas’s bed, greeting the morning with smiles and the sort of lazy lovemaking she’s never before experienced. Her feelings for Willas fill her chest to the breaking point, and she cannot even conceive of what it will be like when he returns to Highgarden.

“I’ve asked Oberyn if, when the war is over, he will have the High Septon set aside your marriage so we may wed,” Willas tells her one afternoon as they picnic, Catya running around and fighting imaginary enemies with her spear. “That is, if you are agreeable.”

“I find it quite agreeable. But…I cannot give you an heir. Catya’s birth damaged me. The maester says it is unlikely I will ever be able to bear another without the birth killing us both.”

“I do not care. I will have a dozen nieces and nephews. All I want is you at Highgarden with me.”

“And Catya,” she adds. “Catya would be at Highgarden as well, would she not?”

Willas’s smile falters. “Sansa…Oberyn will never let you leave Dorne with his daughter. There is a reason his girls are with him and not their mothers.” Reading Sansa’s obvious discomfort, he takes her hand in his. “We would visit her often. And here she would be with her sisters – “

Sansa pulls her hand away, ice filling her veins. “I will not leave my daughter, Willas. That is not an option.”

“Sansa, you will have to leave her anyway.” Quickly glancing around, Willas lowers his voice and says, “I am no idiot. I know there is no Dornishmen who supports Joffrey’s reign and will move against them when the time comes. If they succeed, if they somehow manage to install you back in Winterfell, he still will not let Catya go with you. Your daughter is a princess of Dorne; he will keep her here.”

Sansa looks over towards Catya, now sitting on the ground talking to her doll, her spear at her side. Catya looks up and grins widely at Sansa, a smile Sansa remembers seeing on Robb’s face. She pushes to her feet, rushing towards Sansa with open arms, giggling when Sansa peppers kisses to her face and hair.

If Catya cannot leave Dorne, then Sansa cannot either. The gods themselves could not part her from her daughter.

And as she tells this to Willas, his handsome face crumbling, Sansa realizes that though her cage has changed, she is as much a prisoner of the Martells as she was the Lannisters.

* * *

“Willas tells me you refused his proposal.”

Sansa twists around on her balcony and sees Oberyn standing inside her room. She turns her attention back to the sea in the distance, watching the passing ships. “I had little choice.”

“Do you truly think Catya would be unhappy here?”

“She belongs with me.”

“She belongs with her family.”

Her fingers clenching the railing until her knuckles turn white, Sansa grits out, “I am her mother.”

“Yes,” Oberyn agrees, his voice frustratingly calm, “and you are a wonderful mother. But she is a Dornish princess who should grow up with her sisters and her people.”

“Her blood is as Northern as it is Dornish.”

“But she is a Martell of Sunspear, and that is all she will be seen as being.” Oberyn comes to stand next to her, looking out at the sea with a sigh. “You have heard what is said about us. It will be said about her as well. She needs to grow here, needs to learn how to protect herself so – “

“So a lord does not have to wed her in an attempt to keep her safe?” Sansa cuts in, her voice as sharp as a blade.

“I was not calling you weak.”

“But you think it. You think I am too weak to raise our daughter alone.”

“I think it is dangerous for anyone to be alone in the world.”

“And what would you know of it?” she spits, angry tears filling her eyes. “What do you know of being alone?”

“I know you are upset, but this is what is best.”

 _I have grown so tired of men deciding what is best for me_ , Sansa thinks, keeping her eyes on the horizon as Oberyn leaves. She does not want to be here anymore, and she has nowhere else to go. Frustration swelling sharply, she opens her mouth to scream when she notices something on one of the ships.

There, above the billowing white sails, is a flag bearing a merman.

It is the first time since her father’s death she has seen something Northern, and Sansa finds herself crying like a child at the sight of it. She is not a Dornish princess nor will she ever be the Lady of Highgarden.

“I am the Queen in the North,” she says aloud, testing the words on her tongue. 

She loves Ellaria, loves her stepdaughters and Doran and Arianne and Trystane and Quentyn on the other side of the world; even Oberyn with his decrees will always occupy a place in her heart for taking her from Joffrey. But she is not the child who was wedded without her permission, the girl who nearly died in the birthing bed, the woman unsure of her place in Dorne anymore; she cannot be the girl who smiles and pretends in hopes that the storm will pass.

_I am a Stark. I can be brave._

It is time to charge into the storm.


End file.
